


A Guide to Murdering with Your Serial Killer Boyfriend

by FauxFidele



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A little crack, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Begging, Bottom Will, Come Eating, Dirty Talk, Discipline, Domesticated Murder Husbands, Hair Pulling, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is a cock tease, Hannibal is a little emo, Hannigram - Freeform, Happily Ever After, Kissing, M/M, Manipulation, Mentions of Murder, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Season/Series 03, Punishment, Rimming, Sassy Will Graham, Some Fluff, Top Hannibal, VERY light domination, Will and Hannibal go to the opera, Will gets his first rim job, Will is kind of a twink, Will swears a lot, Will's POV, deep trench, domestic hannigram
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:40:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FauxFidele/pseuds/FauxFidele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal has been acting a bit peculiar lately. Long periods of brooding and silence, giving him the cold shoulder, has left Will at a loss. When Hannibal presents him with tickets to the opera, Will recognizes the opportunity and devises a plan to draw him out of his despondency, by whatever means necessary. </p><p>As the evening unfolds, both men are surprised to find that things do not always pan out as they had imagined. </p><p>Wink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after Spidergate:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/6604390
> 
> This started as a drabble from Will's POV and turned into a bit of a monster. So I've had to restructure, breaking up the chapters a little different, and cutting and moving some things to make room for the abundant filth that transpired. Oh Will, you greedy, twinky little shit. 
> 
> Sorry to be confusing! I've never written first person before so I'd love to hear your feedback! Please and thank you. 
> 
>  
> 
> Love to you all! XD

We’re killing a little time after dinner, and both of us are kind of silently mulling as we sit at the bar, each of us lost to our own rambling thoughts. At least, mine ramble, Hannibal’s probably cascade elegantly, like he’s composing a fucking symphony of words when he’s thinking. I suppress a grin at this and clear my throat, but he pays me no mind and I continue to sip my drink.

I catch a glance of myself in the mirror that curves behind the bar, and I hardly even recognize myself with my hair cropped so shortly on the sides, the longer pieces just sort of chaotically styled in place on the top. My facial hair is almost gone, hardly longer than a five o’clock shadow, causing me to look nearly ten years younger.

I can tell Hannibal likes it, but I’m not sure if I do. It’s the first time I’ve shaved since our cliff dive, and even though the scar has healed nicely, I can still see its outline plainly in my reflection. I’m a little self-conscious about it, actually, and have been awkwardly turning my head away from people all evening.

I’m wearing an Italian suit that’s tailored so perfectly that the fabric hugs every curve, every limb like I was born into it and it’s merely grown with my body along the way. The subtle pinstripes are almost undetectable against the fine wool fibers, but I have to admit, I’m pleased he convinced me to add them because I’m pretty sure I look taller, and for some reason I do like that.

I’ll never admit that to him, of course, considering the way I argued, debating for nearly twenty minutes over just that one stupid, singular detail while we stood in line at his favorite boutique.

In my (slight) defense, he does know how much I hate shopping. Add to it the process of stripping you down, measuring and prodding you for an hour while a group of men whisper back and forth, analyzing the direction your dick hangs as you just stand there modeling, hot and sweaty, and exposed. At that point can anyone really be expected to give a shit about adding fucking pinstripes?

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I remember saying, once we reached the front desk, “Just order it the way you want.” I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t keep a totally straight face once I saw that victorious smile spread across his lips.  

Instead I felt my lips betray me, curling into a cheesy half-smile that was utterly impossible to suppress, and in that moment he sucked me straight into his vacuum, quieting all the voices outside of our orbit, as the rest of the world faded to black.

We both knew that we’d end up getting the suit made with the goddamned pinstripes, but he let me argue and fuss in some twisted effort on his part to let me think I had a say in it. And still, the pathetic sucker I am … I smiled like a fiend.

The only consolation prize is my own ability to yield that same power of coercion over him as well. This shifting energy consumes every part of our days together; one side pushing while the other pulls in a balancing act between two children on a playground, slowly bouncing up and down on the seesaw.

… I let my eyes widen and slowly lift up to meet Hannibal’s, and just barely graze my teeth over my bottom lip that’s jutting out and glistening from having just run my tongue along it. “Please,” I whisper, quietly.

Just like that … we have a dog. (Which Hannibal _totally_ loves, by the way, despite always complaining about the hair.)

…Hannibal corners me in the kitchen, admiring me, creating a perfect replica of my face in his mind palace. His eyes subtly trace along the edges of my mouth, which slacks open just slightly, before looking up to meet my own shamefully wanton gaze. He kisses me tenderly, once.

He tells me I’m beautiful, and though my instinct is to cringe, I’m too fucking distracted by my the way my heart’s pounding like it’s about to break through my chest like some Alien creature.

My neurons are alight, sparking at just the hint of his breath to my skin; it rushes to my dick, which is so hard that it aches desperately against the restrictive denim I’m wearing, which he instigates by gently brushing the tip of his forefinger along the edges of my zipper. At this point, I’m convinced that even a thousand years of fucking could never quench the thirst I’ve developed for this man.

He whispers to me, ghosting words that prickle the hairs along my neck. It would compliment my beauty, he says. I hesitate, but my cock is all but reaching out for him, twitching and greedy to get closer. I can’t restrain myself any longer. I agree to do it. _For him._ But only if he promises to fuck me senseless; the kind of sweaty, debauched madness normally reserved for lovers on the night before a great battle. He promises – and I can assure you, he delivers.

I get a dog … he gets me in a hand-tailored suit. Tit for tat.

Only now I’ve managed to fuck up the delicate balance of our egos when I discovered him in the kitchen with the spider. After joyfully testing the depths of Hannibal’s shriek-inducing fear, I’ve created a rift in his armor that he wasn’t ready to expose, weighing down my side of the teetering plank with a deafening thud.

Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy that feeling in the moment, he’s since been harboring a restless, sour kind of energy that lingers in the air around our flat like a dense fog.

He’s been spending more time in his study than I’ve ever known him to do since we arrived in Italy, so he is obviously avoiding me. Even his meals lack the same panache they’re usually prepared with, instead choosing to serve more traditional Italian fare without so much as a single lesson of its philosophical origin. _Huge_ red flag.

Suffice it to say I couldn’t refuse when he presented me with tickets for Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde,” despite wanting to resist with every fiber of my being. I knew I’d been lucky to even avoid the opera as long as I have, considering his passionate affinity for the art form. I’ve just been living on borrowed time now that we’re staying in Florence.

I always knew one day I’d end at his side, adorning his arm and letting him show me off around all the great Italian opera houses.

So unavoidable it was that I once even Googled “how to sit through an opera without killing yourself,” just as a hilarious, stream-of-consciousness joke brewed out of my own boredom and was intrigued to find that there are, actually fucking advice columns and blogs that offer suggestions for sitting through an entire performance. It’s all overly obvious, asinine shit like, “try to understand the art form,” or “open your mind to a new dimension of sound,” as if that’s even remotely helpful to any person … _ever_. Then again you’re the one reading the _Dummies Guide to Watching Opera_ on the fucking Internet so you’re probably already screwed and don’t have the right to complain anyway.

Yeah, I’m screwed.

So I’m going to get drunk. Hopefully, really, _really_ drunk so I won’t be so aware of the inevitable feeling of everyone staring at me, judging. Knowing that I’m not nearly sophisticated enough to be here, by his side.

I kick back the last swig of my bourbon and subtly make eye contact with the bartender, tapping my index finger twice on the rim of my glass and he acknowledges me with a quick nod. I feel the burning eyes of Hannibal glaring into my head and I know it’s his way of scolding me for taking down my second drink so quickly.

The bartender is quick, and he’s already setting down my next drink in front of me as he sweeps away my empty glass. I raise my glass toward Hannibal. “To Tristan … and Isolde,” I say, raising one eyebrow in an attempt to be cheeky, but I’m pretty sure it’s come off as patronizing.

Hannibal barely flits his eyes to me and nurses his own drink, pretending to ignore me. His hair rests just above his shoulders now; golden strands slicked back elegantly in place for tonight’s event. Even his beard has become a thing of beauty – specks of silver fleck amidst the lighter tones like a fucking Norse god. _Mmmm_.

He finally turns to me, but only to offer a disapproving frown.

“If you’re unhappy with our arrangements for the evening, Will …” he says, his voice low and uncharacteristically mopey. I grab for his hand, which does not come willingly, and that throws me off a little bit.

“Hannibal,” I say quietly, using my wide and brimming puppy eyes, covering his fingers with my own, “I just want to make you happy.”

He scoffs and pulls his hand away. “By making a drunken spectacle of yourself?”

“I’m just trying to loosen up a bit,” I say, trying to sound as convincing as possible. “This isn’t my forte, you know that.” I take a more modest sip from my drink.

“But, if it makes you happy … I’m willing to try.”

I force him to meet my eyes, and offer a gentle smile. I wish I could make him believe me, but I know I’ll just have to _show_ him instead. My brain is reeling through potential strategies and before I realize it, I’m drifting back into the depths of my mind, staring into space.

Hannibal gives me a suspicious flick of the eyebrow. “Trying to devise a means of circumventing our outing?” he asks.

I make a seriously dedicated effort not to roll my eyes. “No, actually,” I reply quietly.

I lean into him sideways, still staring straight ahead and nudge him with the side of my head. I reach a hand to his lap, but he catches my wrist between his fingers and stops me. I make a barely audible, sad little groan.

“ _Please_ ,” I breathe out. I don’t even know what I’m asking for, but it’s all I can think of to say.

He stares at me, distrust painted across his face. Gently, he releases my hand but nudges it away. I’ve got a steady buzz building at this point, so I wince and try to bury my frustration with another sip, but I realize I’m once again at the bottom of my glass.

 _Fuck_ , this is going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

After a long period of idly avoiding conversation with one another, a woman appears next to me, gently grazing my shoulder as she slides in next to me at the bar. She smiles as I look to her, and she twists her mouth up in a way that convinces me that she doesn’t know I’m here with Hannibal. I smile back with a slight, half-cocked grin and I can practically feel him behind me, searing through my skull with that steely glare of his.

She looks down at my empty drink teasingly and nods toward the glass. “ _Cosa bevi_?” she asks, her voice purring and velvety smooth.

I’m smiling politely back, but before I can answer Hannibal reaches across me and grabs my shoulder with his left hand, slowly, so she can’t possibly miss the gesture of his brandished wedding band, and pulls me in, toward him.

“He’s had enough … _adesso basta_ ,” he says, voicing turning to a growl that’s not unlike a wolf protecting its fresh kill, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise from the sudden ferocity in his tone.

She rolls her eyes, shrugging, as she turns and struts off into a crowd behind us. I breathe out a loud sigh of relief, but as I look over to Hannibal, my lips part into a grin. _Oh shit_. I might be a little bit tipsy.

He merely scowls at me without any amusement behind his eyes.

“Sorry, just … you were _jealous_ ,” I say, slightly surprised. He’s been behaving so apathetically, I honestly expected him to ignore the intrusion. And now suddenly I’m grinning like a maniac. I can’t help it. Seeing him fend off the would-be suitor rouses a stirring in my groin that I just can’t control.

The beard, the form-fitting suit that flares just around his midsection that will inevitably cause him to open and close his coat repeatedly throughout the evening, and … Oh! _That obscene growl_. Heat surges between my legs, and my pants are distinctly more constricting than they were a minute ago.

“We should go,” he says, interrupting my trailing thoughts of indecency. He tosses a few notes on the top of the bar and slides gracefully out of his seat, heading to the door.  

 _Of course_ , I lament internally, but I follow behind him, strategically hiding my swelling erection as I topple down from my own barstool, hand in pocket.

 _Don’t worry_ , I console myself, _there’s plenty of time for that later_.

 

* * *

  
We arrive at the theater about 30 minutes before the curtain.

Hannibal opens the door for me and ushers me in with a gentlemanly palm wave, lest anyone think he’s impolite, but I can still feel the stagnant chill between us as he leads me by arm into the entrance hall.

He turns to me like a drill sergeant. “Wait here,” he commands as he spins and walks toward the bar, positioned in a small nook at the far corner of the room.

There are hundreds of guests walking in and out of the foyer; most of the men dressed in suits like us, the women in various shades of jewel-toned gowns with diamonds and gemstones adorning their skin. My chest clenches as I realize I have no idea how to behave around these people, so I decide to follow behind him, and try to catch up.

Hannibal has stepped into the line at the bar and I slide in behind him, wiggling my way in front of some pompous looking guy in a depressingly tacky striped suit that was too short and too tight for his frame. He sort of shoves his elbow into me with a passive-aggressive expression of his annoyance.

When I turn around, he’s brandishing his folded arms at me, his diamond-encrusted Bvlgari watch shoved in my face close enough that I can see my reflection in the crystal.

Instinctively I want to tear it off his wrist and smash the high-end timepiece to bits in front of him, but then I glance down at the solid 18 karat gold and diamond Patek Philippe that’s decorating my own wrist, courtesy of Hannibal Lecter. _You hypocrite_ , I hiss to myself. I sigh.

“What are you doing, Will?” Hannibal snaps at me, hijacking my attention.

I must look lost, because he continues, impatient. “I told you to wait.” The scowls and pursed lips he throws are now becoming old hat, and I hardly even register them.

“I want a drink,” is all I say, with a casual shrug.

Hannibal closes his eyes and exhales deeply, as if he’s wrestling with the idea of saying something particularly vehement.

“Very well,” he says, though he’s eyeing me with this certain suspicious concentration, like one would a lit firework that’s burned to its end without igniting.

He doesn’t seem to trust me not to blow up in his face.  

“Thanks, _dear_ ,” I say with a straight face, though, Hannibal’s seething death stare brings my grin to the surface. I resist the urge to grab his hand, because I know he’ll only pull it away. Not yet.

He orders a glass of wine and tries to order me one as well, but I refuse and tell him I want to order my own. I hear another irritated sigh coming from the peanut gallery in the striped suit behind Hannibal, and I can practically hear his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

The bartender, a possibly mid-thirties blonde with beady eyes and a stern look, leans in and asks for my order.

“Negroni,” I say, with a polite nod of my head. I can hear Mr. Bvlgari tapping his toe behind me. Hannibal is still watching me intently.

She pours the gin into the shaker.

“Wait,” I say loudly, so she can hear me. She turns and looks at me, face lacking a discernable expression. Maybe annoyance? Possibly indifference.

“Yes?” she asks, eyeing around me at the people lined up behind me.

“Sorry,” I say rather stupidly, “Don’t really like gin, thought it just had soda.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “With soda is _Americano_ ,” she snaps, mumbling to herself in Italian, but pours out the first concoction, and begins to work on the new one.

“This guy fucking kidding?” I hear Bvlgari say loudly to his friend with a heavily coated accent, and I catch myself smiling at his irritated reaction.

Just as I turn to face him, Hannibal seizes my hand and yanks me out of the line, leaving a 20 euro note on the bar counter with an apologetic wave, like one would when their child is embarrassing them.

I sigh out a long, languid exhale as Hannibal guides me by my hand to a secluded hallway that appears to lead to the restrooms. He’s pinned me against the wall, but without the usual undercurrent of sexual tension that so often travels between us.

He isn’t amused at all.  He finishes his entire glass of wine with a gulp and sets it aside on a ledge.

“I’d like you to stop this, Will …” he says, irritably. He narrows his eyes. “ _Now_.”

I hold my ground. “Whatever it is you _think_ I’m doing,” I say curtly, “I’m not.” I’m a little nervous standing up to him when he’s like this, but the liquid courage is helping me feel a bit more tenacious.

He swallows hard. “No?” he retorts, soft and foreboding. His amber eyes are piercing into me like they can peel away all my layers to the core.  

People are walking back and forth down the hallway the entire time Hannibal has me pinned over here to the side. They’re mostly offering a raised eyebrow here, or a strange glance there, but we’re not attracting a dangerous amount of attention … yet.

I shake my head slowly, back and forth. _No_.

His breathing is becoming deeper, sharper. I’m not trying to make him mad, but the alcohol has made me a bit more brazen than I mean to be.

“Even you,” I say uselessly, “don’t always see my intentions.”

My tone comes out gentle, and I lift my hand to his face, grazing a finger along that jawline I was lusting over earlier. (Still lusting over, currently, despite the brooding.)

“I’ve seen enough,” he bites back, turning his head away from my touch.

I frown, genuinely disappointed, and a little hurt. For lack of a better backup plan, I make the decision to do something … _rash_.

I reach behind him and run my hand along his thigh, cupping my hand around his ass and squeezing with an over-abundance of enthusiasm, and though he briefly snarls at me like some sort of provoked animal, he’s too late, because a horde of theater patrons is closing in, and their lingering, unimpressed scowls tell me that they witnessed my violation.

I’m grinning a bit like a madman because I know Hannibal can’t do anything about it now, and he’s not even sure how to react. Ostensibly he seems somewhat placid, but I know that inside his mind he’s creating a list of all the terrible things he’s going to do to me when this is over.

That familiar rush of excitement burns through me as I consider what my punishment will be, but before I can even construct a proper visual I’m distracted by the incoherent chattering from the approaching group.

I sort of pull myself close into him as if I’m being affectionate, and he glares down at me.

“You’re acting like a _child_ ,” he whispers, but spits it out venomously.

I bite my lip, trying not to wince at the insult, and smile as if you’d told me a hilarious joke, and I’m sure they’ll buy it since I’m the only person who knows how implausible it is that you would tell a joke that would actually be funny. (At least, in your current state.)

I hear one of the group members raise his voice, shouting over the others. The people around him seem a little unsure of whether they like what he’s saying, but most of them looking rather offended by either what he’s saying or what they’ve seen.

The fatter man steps away from the group, walking towards us, his paunch jiggling from under his cheap, polyester suit.

“ _Excuse me_ ,” he says, like he’s annoyed at having to speak with us.

He looks me straight in the eye. “ _That_ ,” he says, motioning his head with a look of disgust at the two of us, “Should _not_ be in public.”

I shrug with an unapologetic smile.

“Should go home,” he mumbles through heavy lips, before making a scoffing noise and curling his lip up at us while turning to walk away, shuffling down the length of the hall.

Hannibal’s face freezes, and I’m certain he’s still embedding the details from our encounter into his data bank. In fact, he’s probably already identified each of the components that made our meddler’s unpleasant body stench, which was offensive even by my own, mediocre olfactory senses.

I look down at my watch, twenty minutes until curtain.

Hesitantly, but with as much sweetness as I can manage, I reach out to him and let my fingers tug at his lapel, sliding them down the front of his coat, and finally he meets my eyes.

“Hey … _please_ ,” I say with genuine sincerity, “bear with me.” I speak quietly, in such a way that he knows I’m not being mischievous or playful.

“… just wait for me.”

I lift a finger to indicate that I’m coming right back and he barely flicks his eyes up to mine before looking down once again.

I walk down the corridor, following the turns until I reach the bathroom. A few scattered voices and footsteps are shuffling inside and I wait for the exact moment to push through the doors, barreling through them with more force than a normal person would use.

The door stops abruptly on something and I hear a barrage of incoherent banter, probably profanities, and I push my way through and confirm that I’ve made contact with the man on the other side. Papers scatter on the ground.

“Oh _gosh_ , I’m sorry,” I say, unabashedly sarcastic.

When the pudgy man looks up and makes eye contact with me, his face reddens as he recognizes me from before and he starts muttering under his breath.

I bend down as if to help him gather the papers – tickets, program, a fancy gala invitation – but he recoils as if I’m infected with a contagious disease, which I find highly amusing for some reason and it’s truly a chore not to mock him.

“Don’t touch!” he hisses, glaring at me with this sniveling look of disapproval.  He picks up his belongings, moving quicker than he’s probably ever moved in his life, judging by the heavy way he’s breathing, and makes for the door.

I stand back up slowly and meet his lip-curling sneer with an ambivalent shrug, and say “sorry” once more.

He makes sure to spit toward the ground in front of me ( _lovely!_ ), more for dramatic effect than substance, and waddles out the door. I swallow down the contempt that’s broiling over in my belly, and will myself to let it go. For _now_.

Thanks to the bourbon, I really have to use the restroom so I proceed like one normally would, and when I’m done, casually stroll back to discover that Hannibal is nowhere to be found. 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite having partially expected him to bolt, I’m still _really_ frustrated that I don’t see him anywhere and I glance around the room like a lost kid at the grocery store. My breath stalls a little and I feel the crippling anxiety latch onto my chest, attempting to sink deep into my skin as I become painfully aware of my smallness amongst the mass of people.

I try and shake it away, assuming that my antics have caused Hannibal to seek out some fresh air.

As I walk briskly down the hallway and into the foyer, I fight against the flow of bodies that are crowding to make their way into the theater. When I push open the front door, I take in a long breath as I make contact with the fresh air.

I see Hannibal across the way, nearing the street curb, his hand in the air to signal for a cab and I can’t keep myself from sprinting toward him. It’s after dark now and the night air has cooled significantly, which is a welcomed sensation against my flushed, panic-stricken skin.

Just as a cab pulls next to the sidewalk, I reach Hannibal, who’s making a valiant effort to pretend he doesn’t see me. He tries to get in, or at least wants me to really believe he’s making a run for it.

I grab his arm, tugging at his coat sleeve, even though I know the gesture seems a little pathetic.

“Hannibal …” ( _Fuck_! I used his name in public. The alcohol – or anxiety – is betraying me.) He throws me a brief, disapproving look and I wince apologetically.

“You made your point,” he says sourly, “You wanted us to leave, so I’m leaving.”

I inhale sharply, resisting the urge to scream and curse at him or simply rattle him like a can of pennies. I don’t have the mental fortitude to do this anymore.

“ _Please_ ,” I say softly, adding a long sigh. “Just … stop.” I’m begging, and my voice is trembling a little, so he takes pity on me and stops to listen, turning to face me.

“I got something for you,” I say, rather lamely, averting my eyes and releasing him from my grip.

I produce an aged leather wallet from my pocket and pass it to him.

He cocks his head a bit like a retriever, eyeing me suspiciously as he opens it, revealing frayed paper edges that are sticking out from their slits. I signal with a nod for him to continue, and he pulls the papers out from their sleeve and unfolds them.

As he scans the document, his eyes shift as if something finally clicks in his brain and a revelation is settling in his mind.

“Will …” he chokes out, barely audible, eyes searching me up and down as if he can’t bear to believe what I’m showing him.

He’s looking at the identification documents I nicked off ‘Enzo Bertolini’ in the bathroom while he was squirming around on the ground, not realizing I had already slid the wallet out from his pocket while he was busy worrying that I’d infect him with my contagious homosexuality. ( _Idiot_ , I quip to myself.) All the information we need, including a home address, right there, in his hands.

“I told you,” I say, my voice still on edge, “we’re really _not_ leaving.”

My lips break into a genuine, irrepressible grin now, because I can tell that Hannibal finally understands what I’ve been trying to orchestrate. He’s biting down hard on his lip, like he’s trying to keep his emotions from spilling out at once, and he turns to mumble something to the driver in Italian.

I grab his hand as he turns back to me, squeezing it forcefully, and at long last, he returns the action and closes his fingers around my own. A relieved smile nearly explodes past my lips.

“Come,” I say. He moves in closer to me without resisting.

“We’re going back inside now, and we’re going to watch all three-and-a-half hours of ‘Tristan and _fucking_ Isolde’,” I continue on, laughing, “Even though I already know you’ve only picked it because of its reputation of being insufferably boring.”

This makes him laugh. I knew it. _Dick_.

“Are you –” he starts to ask. I raise a finger to him and cut him off, but he’s smiling now and his eyes are glowing happier than I’ve seen them in months.

“Wait,” I say sternly, but with a twitchy, crooked smile, trying to be at least a little serious.

“You and I are going to sit through this whole thing, and I’m not going to interrupt, or sabotage it in any sort of way. But …” I pause, raising a single eyebrow for dramatic effect, “When the curtain falls, it’s my turn.”

I pull him close and move my hand against his cheek, then guide it into that silky hair I’ve been dying to play with all night, threading the strands between my fingers. I give it an affectionate tug, and pull my forehead into his, and I feel his arm curve around my waist, fully reciprocating the embrace. I sink into it his grip, and I realize how much I’ve missed this comfort over the last few days, as his fingertips move lightly up my spine.

When our lips finally meet, both of us are grinning so it’s a bit toothy and clumsy at first, but soon our tongues find their way to one another, sliding and twisting together, thoroughly enjoying their reunion. I stop only to reposition, taking his sinfully pliant bottom lip between my teeth, nipping and tugging at it gingerly, before letting my tongue slide back into the velvety cocoon of his mouth once again. We stay conjoined like that for who knows how long, mouths slick with each other’s saliva, in a coordinated display of sucking and biting until we’re forced to pull away to catch our breath.

I’m smiling as I breathe in and out sharply, and Hannibal lets out a bit of a whimper as I move to kiss him along his stubble, those silver and gold flecks, sparkling intermittently under the illumination of the streetlamp.

“When we go inside,” I whisper through the kisses, “I’ll be _so_ good, I promise.”

Hannibal’s other hand moves around my back, and I feel him tense against my body. "Is that so ...?" he muses, fingers trailing lower, just grazing along the top of my waistband. 

It’s cold outside but I’m on fire now, sparks burning under my skin each time he touches me, so I push my whole body into him so I can feel him, already hard, pressing against my skin and it jerks up against my thigh almost on command. He just stares at me with these weak eyes, his lips parted like a fucking open invitation.

By some miraculous display of self-control, I press on. “And when it’s over …”

He nudges my head back and brings his mouth against my neck, his tongue gently dragging along the sensitive skin, assisting the faint kisses. I’m trying to maintain focus, despite my knees trying to crumble completely under his touch.

My voice is trembling now, along with my entire body. “When it’s over,” I repeat, attempting more authority, “we’ll find _Signore Bertolini_ …”

He nips gently on my earlobe, and I can’t help the shameful sound that escapes from my mouth. “What shall we do when we find him?” Hannibal says, purring it into my ear like the evil, Nordic siren that he is.

I take a step back so I can look him in the eyes. “We’ll make him apologize,” I say softly, “for his _unspeakable_ rudeness.”

Hannibal suddenly looks overwhelmed, and I swear I think he’s going to start crying.

I grab his tie on impulse and yank him toward me, catching him off guard and press my lips against his as if I’ll never get the chance again. He meets my tongue readily, greedy even, as our lips become enslaved to one another as they twist into a wet and wanton mess. I’m not expecting Hannibal to pull away, but he does.

“Are you quite sure about this?” he asks gently, studying me.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve been wanting to do this with you … I just,” I pause to grab his hand, “I wanted to make it special.”

Fuck me, I’ve turned into a goddamned after school special. For murderers. _How to Know When the Time is Right: A Guide to Murdering with Your Serial Killer Boyfriend_. (Husband, I say silently, correcting myself.)

Jesus Christ.

How is it even possible that I can love this walking paradox of a man, _this_ fucking much? My thoughts must be pathetically transparent because right on cue, Hannibal makes that terrifying face again like he’s overcome with emotion.

Stupidly, I panic. “Don’t –” I blurt out, laughing a little awkwardly. I squeeze his hand and he smiles, almost sheepish. God, I really hope he doesn’t cry. Because the truth is, if he cries, I know I’ll cry.

 _Please don’t cry_.

“Sorry,” I say, because I’m growing sort of embarrassed, and I’m not nearly as confident as I was earlier in the evening now that I’ve tossed all my cards on the table.I step back and offer my hand, and I feel sort of like Prince Charming asking for Cinderella’s hand to escort her into the ball.

“Come inside with me?”

He glances down at his watch, which if it matches mine (and I’m quite sure he’s ensured that it does), reads 5 minutes until curtain.  He folds his hand around mine and I lead him back up the stairs, toward the theater.

Hannibal can’t suppress the smile on his face, and he looks abundantly pleased  as we ascend up the concrete staircase. “What?” I ask with a mocking sort of curiosity, raising a single eyebrow at him.

“I’d been so sure you were baiting me,” he says thoughtfully, reflecting. “I hadn’t even entertained the notion that you were casting your lure out, into the vast, open water.”

He’s looking down at me like a teacher would their star student who’s received a prestigious award. _The_ award. _All_ the awards. I can’t help but smile since my heart explodes into the high heavens when he looks at me like that.

It’s just that no one’s ever done that before. _Adored me_.

We stop at the top of the stairs, just before the entrance, and I turn to face him.

“I just set the hook,” I whisper softly, squeezing his hand. “But we reel it in … together.”

His eyes soften and goddammit if the slightest pools of water form at their corners, but I can tell he’s mustered all his willpower to keep them from spilling over. I turn into him and kiss him gently, trying to distract him from the welling in my own eyes.

He pulls away just a bit, so he can see my face. Oh, well. _You tried._

“Such a special, beautiful boy,” he says in this extra sultry, gravelly voice.

I never thought I’d be the type of person who’d get all wobbly in the knees from being told they were beautiful, yet here I am, effectively melting into him on the steps of an opera theater in Florence, like some needy, desperate thing – and I can’t do anything to make it to stop.

 _I don’t want to_.

I realize I’m just staring at him, lost in the creases and sharp edges and textures. His face is like a topological work of art, and I can’t resist bringing my lips to meet his once again, softly kissing into them, savoring how they mold into each other as if they were never meant to break apart.

Somehow we manage to pull away from one another and I gaze longingly at him, like some hopeful, doe-eyed, rom-com heroine, right into those fiery pools of amber. “Ready when you are, Dr. Lecter,” I say playfully, just for old time’s sake. He grins.

A pause. “Just one suggestion … ” Hannibal adds, catching me off guard.  
  
“And what would that be, _Doctor_?” I swallow hard, audibly, and Hannibal’s lips break apart into a genuine, pearly smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: deep trenches ahead

Hannibal stops just short of the front door of the theater and turns to face me.

I’m strangely nervous all of the sudden. It must be palpable, because he lifts a gentle hand to my cheek, briefly letting his finger trail along my jawline.

“You look so lovely tonight, Will,” he croons, words dripping so sensually that it’s almost lewd. “I don’t think I told you that.”

My legs almost buckle underneath me at the smooth undercurrent of his voice, and I have to catch myself to keep from falling over. He trails his eyes up and down, looking me over. “The pinstripes were a nice touch, weren’t they?” He adds, his eyes twinkling.

I try to fake a grimace, but I just end up chewing on my lips to keep a giggle from escaping. I meet his eyes for a moment. “They’re okay … _I guess_.”

He smiles back fondly, but I’m still leery of the subject change so my eyes are flitting side to side from Hannibal to the front doors. “So … what is it?” I ask reluctantly.

Hannibal looks a bit surprised at my apprehension and takes my hand, covering it with his own, like tender reassurance.

“I should confess, Will,” he starts quietly, rubbing the palm of my hand with his thumb in a comforting gesture, “the performance I have chosen for us this evening may be a _bit_ daunting for the inexperienced theater patron.”

His eyes glint mahogany as the lines framing them crinkle in motion with his smile. I return it with a skeptical, raised eyebrow.

“Though I would be disinclined to describe it as, how did you phrase it? _Insufferably boring_ , I believe it was?” he asks, reiterating my words with a wink.

A _fucking_ wink.

I laugh, a little too nervously. “You uh … don’t think I can _handle_ it?” I say, curling my lips into a smile.

He purses his lips and makes a serious face, like he’s thinking. “Mmmm,” he hums aloud. “No, Will, I’m quite sure you could … _handle_ it,” he says, emphasizing those last words with eyes narrowing in on me, nostrils flared. His wild look is embellished by the hair I displaced earlier, strands now blowing freely across his face in the breeze.

My cock stirs and jumps to attention as he slings those lascivious words at me and I feel his grip on my hand suddenly turn urgent. My lips are parted and I become aware of the fact that I’m panting out thick, heaving breaths.

“I mean, I can … definitely … _handle it_ ,” I wisp out between the staggered breaths, greedily eyeing Hannibal’s lap now, and I can see the lines in the fabric shifting and growing tighter over the swelling that’s taking place underneath.

His head moves into my own, and he settles his lips next to my cheek, grazing them across my jaw, softly dragging them up to my ear, where he lingers on the fleshy lobe, letting his tongue just press past his teeth to moisten the nip he allows for himself, sending a shockwave through my body.

“Given your … _revelation_ ,” he rasps out, cooing into my ear, “I believe our time could be more wisely spent elsewhere.” He sucks a hot, wanton kiss against my throat, letting his tongue leave a slick trail as he pulls back to face me.

I lift my heavy eyes to meet his. “Is this a trick?” My erection throbs from the heat of his touch, and that white, lusty haze is clouding my perception.

“I think we have much to be worked out, you and I,” Hannibal says cooly, “if we are to pay our new friend a visit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He motions his eyes away from the opera house, toward the street where the patrons wait for their cabs and back to me again.

“I … don’t,” I catch on my words, still glancing back at the doors, unsure. “ _I promised I’d be good_ ,” I whisper, suspiciously eyeing him up and down, still worried that it is, in fact, a trick.

He leans in closely so I can feel his breath, hot against my skin, the scruff along his chin rubbing against my own.

“I made _no such promise_ ,” he growls into my skin, teeth grazing along my throat, and that’s all it takes for me turn toward the stairs, descending with his fingers laced between mine as I signal my hand for the taxi.

* * *

The seven-minute cab ride is pure torture, as we’re forced to sit silently, keeping to our respective sides of the taxi.

I stare listlessly out the window, refusing to look in his direction because I can’t stop replaying that lecherous fucking sound he just _bit_ into me. The way my cock jumped to life under his touch. The way it nags persistently at me now, refusing to be ignored, throbbing and leaking under the restraint of my pants, which have suddenly become impossibly fucking tight.

We arrive and he steps out of the taxi gracefully, in complete contrast to me, tripping on my own feet as I stumble out, awkwardly running toward the stairs as if I’m racing against myself to reach the flat.

Hannibal pays the driver and strides casually along behind me, meeting me at the front door just as I’ve managed to unlock it.

We both fall inside, limbs tangled in one another, and Hannibal pulls me in front of him to let his mouth trail against the back of my neck, tenderly nipping at the skin, as I’m reaching behind, searching for his belt.

We nearly forget about the dog, so when she comes running up to greet us happily we part briefly as I quickly let her outside, while Hannibal grabs a package from the freezer. I muss her fur a bit so she doesn’t think I’m mad, and leave once she settles in her bed and starts to gnaw away on the marrow bone Hannibal’s given to her, and I rejoin Hannibal in the entryway of our flat.

He’s already removed and properly hung his coat and tie, starting now on his belt, then sliding it free with one sleek, streamlined motion as he sets in neatly on the back of our couch. I’m totally frozen in his trajectory, temporarily forgetting how to move or even speak as he prowls forward, attention narrowed in on me.

I take in a long, steep breath after having momentarily forgotten how to do so.

I lean back instinctively as he moves in, watching the way his eyes work up and down my body, and by the time he glides his hands beneath my coat, I’ve backed myself into the wall. He pushes forward still, letting his rock-hard erection dig into my hip, and I try to keep from gasping as I feel it pulse against the paper-thin fabric of my trousers.

 _Shit_ , I realize my lip is throbbing from biting down on it so hard.

“F _uck ... Hannibal,_ ” I whimper, breathing hot into his shoulders as he hovers above me, his body forcing me against the wall, as his hands bend around my waist and continue exploring up the curve of my back. I feel a desperate groan building in the back of my throat, but somehow manage to swallow it down.

He tears off my coat with one hand and I shrug my shoulders to assist him as he drapes it over a nearby chair. His other hand ventures to my waistband, undoing my belt.

I let him; arms limp at my sides, watching him work as he tosses it across the floor, landing in a messy spiral. He doesn’t seem to give it a second thought.

My chest is heaving in and out under his weight, breath hitching and strained, as I stand there uselessly, admiring the shamelessly desperate way his lips are parted while he coils his fingers around my tie, slipping and pulling against the silk until it finally loosens and he slides the smooth fabric around one side of my neck.

My brows are tugging inward as I look up to him. He discards my tie in a heap on the floor and shoves his head against mine, nudging it sideways as he lifts a free hand to start unbuttoning my shirt.

When he opens the first buttons, he brings his lips to my collarbone, making a light, sucking trail of kisses down my chest.

“You were so brave, earlier,” he rasps out, pushing his nose under my shirt to offer torturous, delicate strokes of his tongue over the peak of my nipple, one and then the other, causing me to gasp weakly. He drags his teeth along the ridge and bites hard enough to get focus my attention.

I inhale sharply.  “I … _what_?”

I can’t think. My neurons are overloaded, singing with that white heat of arousal, my nearly-starved erection commanding the focus of my attention as it aches furiously to be let loose from behind the fabric barricade. I let my hands travel down to my fly, but Hannibal bats them away and I whine out a pathetically tragic simper of disapproval.

“Touching me like that,” he says, throaty with desire, “in front of all those people.”

He kisses once again into my neck, but suddenly a sharp, searing pain rushes through me. Teeth on skin … he’s fucking bitten me!

 _"Fuuuck,”_ I whine, drawing out the word.

The residual sting tells me he’s broken the skin, though it doesn’t hurt so much as spark another surge of electricity straight down to my fucking cock. I let out a low, raspy noise and try to push him away, but he barely moves, his grip on me is so tight and he bares his teeth at me, emitting a low, rumbling sound like some ritual display of dominance.

Oh … _God_. I offer a silent prayer of gratitude  for the drinks I slammed earlier, because I know that barbaric sound he just emitted would have made me come on the spot if not for the heady buzz I’m experiencing.  Even so, I feel an unsettling tugging in my balls and I’m a little worried it could still happen.

“Are you …” I say innocently, looking up through my lashes, “... _are you going to punish me_?”

His lips curl into a snarl and he growls out his words, hoarse and thick with desire. “Yes, I should think so.”

His eyes flicker up and down my body, and he chews on his bottom lip as he seemingly deliberates his method of discipline. The blood is pumping wildly through my veins and all I can hear is my own lusty, animal-in-heat breathing and my heartbeat pounding against my skull, both nervous and flushed with the anticipation of his touch.

He finally lunges toward me, dropping his hands behind me, pushing against me until he can work them under my thighs and lift them up, and instinctively I move with him and allow my legs to cross behind him.

I experience a fleeting moment of embarrassment for allowing myself to be hoisted up like a goddamned damsel in distress, but the feeling evaporates as he closes himself around me and I allow myself to appreciate the natural ease at which my body conforms to him; like I was made to be held like this. _By him_.

His hands cup firmly around my ass, and I sink my head into his shoulder, sucking and kissing along his neck, our bodies rocking and grinding into one another, as his erection digs un _fucking_ mercifully against my own, tormenting me with periodic, and blissfully deliberate, twitches of arousal.

An exhale hisses out of me as I ghost my lips along his ear. “Han … _Hannibal_ ,” I say, sort of stuttering under my breath, allowing my tongue to gently caress along his lobe, producing a satisfied groan of approval.

He squeezes his hand around my ass cheek obscenely, letting his fingers sneak into that tight space, taunting along the deep trench leading to my opening.  

Breathing into my skin, he whispers. “You’re _so lovely_ … and _so tight_ for me, aren’t you, Will?”

 _Oh, fuck_. My whole body convulses at the sound of those debauched words on his lips.

“God, Hannibal …”

 _I’m…  so_ …”  I let my teeth grab hold of the soft, fleshy part of his ear, tugging down with enough force to make him moan softly, voicing his approval.

He guides his hand forward, ghosting fingers along my groin before palming firm, circular motions over my cock, which reactively jerks and trembles under his touch.

Words try to break past my lips, filtering through my raspy breaths. “ _God, I’m so … fucking … hard._ ”

He kisses against my neck, and I can feel the smile form against my skin. “I know you are, dear,” he purrs, softly, ghosting the words into my throat, lingering to suckle and nip at the flesh.

He leans away from me, letting his heavy-lidded eyes meet mine, his perfect, supple lips hovering just above my own, just waiting there to be licked, or chewed, or maybe sucked completely clean of their taste.

“So greedy, aren’t you?” he says under a hushed whisper, as if reading my thoughts.

I slowly lift my head up and down in a nodding motion, swallowing down the urge to pummel him into the floor with an audible gulp. “ _Yes_.”

His eyes gleam brightly, and he lowers his gaze to the not-so-subtle tenting in my pants.

“Are you _wet for me_ , Will? Is your cock glistening already, letting all that delectable sustenance go to waste before I have the chance to help myself?”

My balls clench, and I let out a weak cry. “God … _yessss._ ”

I bury my face into his, kissing along his temple and breathing in the scent of his hair when I suddenly feel him shift, his muscles tensing and flexing under my weight, securing his grip and pulling me in close. He starts moving now away from the wall and all at once I realize that he’s fucking _carrying me_.

My first reaction is to be mortified, but I quickly realize that I’m not -- not even a little.

In fact, it’s so fucking hot that I feel myself bucking my hips into him, letting him feel my nagging cock press into him, coursing and pulsing as I make soft little mewling noises with each passing second that my dick remains untouched.

  
Thank _fuck_ our bedroom is just around the corner, so we don’t have far to go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter of nothing but dirty, dirty porn. Sorry. (I'm not)

When we reach our destination, he releases me and lets me fall backwards onto the bed, and I bounce limply against the mattress, apparently forgetting how to make my arms and legs work on their own. My chest rises and falls as I’m locked into his predatorial gaze, our eyes never breaking.

He just stands there, mouth agape, breathing heavily. Staring.

" _Please_ ,” I beg softly, through my panting.

Again, he just stares, eyes studying me up and down, as if he’s staring at a twelve-course meal, not sure where to start. He smiles. “You’re going to need a little patience, love.”

I let out a whiny, disapproving groan. He lifts a scolding finger to me. “ _Stay put_ ,” he says gruffly, threat implicit in the command.  

He starts work on his own clothes, removing them quickly, but meticulously; his fingers thread the buttons through their interstices, one after another. He shrugs it off, setting aside, and then works at his pants, movements becoming slower and more painstaking. He’s moving at a snail’s pace by the time he’s removing his snug, crimson-hued trunks (that I’ve just realized coordinated with his tie and, _fuck,_ that’s both irritating and unbearably hot).

“ _Fuck_ , Hannibal ...”

He pulls them down, his cock springing free, devastatingly hard and curving upward, the head just peeking out from its foreskin, swollen and red and dripping. I continue to stare at him wordlessly, slack-jawed, practically drooling.

He looks to me innocently, folding his underwear and setting it aside. “Yes, Will?” There’s an unmistakable flash of exuberance in his expression as he witnesses my undoing.

I gulp in a breath of much needed air. “ _Hurry_ ,” I hiss.

Then, “... _Please_.”

He smiles. “ _Such_ an impatient boy,” he says, each word coated in this tantalizing, sexual gruffness that makes me feel like I’m losing my fucking mind. My erection feels like it commands the room as I’m splayed out across the bed, the rising in my pants offering a focal point for his attention, and he eyes it greedily, licking his lips.

“ _Please_ ,” I cry out again, my voice higher and needier than I could even imagine. “I was good,” I say, as if my pleas will make any difference. “I promised to be good …”

Hannibal takes  a step towards me, searing into me and I know he’s creating a visual of the activities he wants to enact. He then makes an expression as if considering something. “That’s true ...” he says, expression agreeable, if not slightly devious.

He lowers himself on the end of the bed, his proud, uncut cock on full display, with slick droplets of precum spilling from his slit and dribbling slowly down his length. I lick my lips, longing to taste that sticky, salty mess against my skin.

“Tell me, Will, what would you have me do?”

I groan loudly, drawing it out. “God, Hannibal … just _fuck me. TOUCH me._ ”

Remembering how to move, I reach my hand out for his cock, but he lunges at me, grabbing my wrist in his hand, stilling it. I try to shake him off in exasperation, grunting and whimpering, but he pulls himself on top of me, straddling me.

“How would you like me to touch you, Will?” My shirt is still on, but open, and he moves down so that he can hover just above the tender, pink line of scar tissue across my abdomen.

I swallow hard. My thoughts are disjointed, clouded, hazy with desire. “ _Mouth_ ,” is all I can say, and I lift my fingers into his hair and pull tightly, shoving his face right into my crotch.  

He bites at my waistband with his teeth, and - _finally_ \- releases my wrist so he can undo my fly.

I breathe a hefty sigh of relief as he starts to pull off my pants, along with my underwear, kissing a trail along my scar and nosing the little curls of hair as he moves across my stomach. His mouth moves to the sharp edges of my hip and he drags his teeth across the bone as my erection finally jerks free, curving back against my stomach and he lifts his head up to offer an appreciative, if not utterly pornographic, smile as he takes in the sight.  

After helping him kick off my pants, I grab at his hair once again, groaning rather madly, as he moves his lips over to my cock, tracing a line with his tongue from base of my shaft all the way to my head, circling around the tip. He’s licking up the precum, ensuring that he consumes every missed drop, as he tightens his lips around my length, sucking and licking into every fold with his warm, slippery tongue.

“ _Yessssss_ ,” I manage to cry out, praising his technique. He hums back in response, and my eyes roll back into my head.

I’m disoriented, dizzy with lust and the overwhelming abundance of pleasure and sensation as toes clench, heels leveraging against the mattress. I realize I’m thrusting my hips into his mouth, grinding and fucking into it like a needy, sex-starved teenager.

_“Nnnnnnnf, Han … God ...”_

He hesitates, letting me slip out of his mouth with a lewd, wet slurp, and in the absence of his mouth he lets a hand venture between my thighs, tracing fingers along my balls, which draw up immediately at the highly-welcomed invasion.

Deeper he moves, until he’s grazing along the outer rim of muscles at my opening, and I can feel my body react to him, tightening, yet _so fucking eager_ to accept his invitation.

“Are you ready for me, Will?” he asks, voice throaty and excruciatingly sensual.

“ _Yes …. fuck me …  please_ ,” I beg pathetically, shamefully  unable to stop myself, “I need to _feel_ you, Hannibal.” My chest is rising and falling rapidly.

“Where?” he responds gruffly, salaciously licking his lips as he waits for my answer.

I can hardly stand the torture any longer --  my forehead is damp and every muscle in my body is tensed, as I dig my nails into the sheets with shaky fingers.

" _Everywhere_ ,” I hiss out, answering obediently, “ _Hannibal._ ”

He grunts, dissatisfied at my apparently wrong answer, and shakes his head, making a “tut tut” sound between his teeth.

I hesitate, frustrated. “In … in _the ass._ ” I’m rasping and straining my words as if I’m pleading for my life. “ _I want you to fuck me in the ass_.”

He doesn’t move, but leers at me, raising an expectant eyebrow, looking thoroughly depraved.  

“Please, Hannibal,” I say, tossing my head back, through gritted teeth, “I just want your huge, uncut cock inside of me … fucking me right open.” I’m barely holding it together, a shivering, whimpering mess, but I meet his eyes and they’re sparkling with satisfaction.

“Well ... since you’ve asked _nicely_.” Lunging forward, he dives between my thighs, sucking me down entirely, that warm, wet heat lighting every neuron in my body to attention as my body trembles underneath him.

He explores my length with his tongue, twisting and pressing it against the ridges of the frenulum. Sweat beads from my temples as I feel the velvety trail of his tongue move downwards, using his lips now to kiss and lick between the inside of my thighs.

The sensation of his facial hair against my thighs makes me cry out as if I’m in pain, and he startles a bit, looking up to me without giving up his position, those amber orbs just glowing back at me.

" _Don’t stop_ ,” I beg weakly.

He doesn’t.

Without warning, he lifts my legs over his shoulders and, after shifting my weight, fucks his wet and rapturous tongue deep inside me, licking me open with an other-worldly display of oral acrobatics. I whimper out his name as my nerves spark to life with the excruciating warmth that accompanies the swirling, blissfully debauched sensations against my tight ring of muscles.

 _Holy fucking FUCK. That’s_ new.

My body rocks into him greedily, encouraging him to continue, and he gladly accepts as he glides his tongue around the rim of my asshole, gentle, but urgent, as he twists and swirls it in various motions as I try to choke down the shrieky, simper of pleasure that comes out of my mouth.

He responds with a satisfied hum, that, along with the movements of his tongue and the soft caress of his lips against my entrance, sends a fucking tidal wave of pleasure through me like I’ve never experienced, blinding and intoxicating.

My fists grab at tufts of his hair, pulling forcefully in some vain attempt to counterbalance the sensation overload. My balls draw in, and I breathe in and out weakly, like some delicate, broken creature, and I start to feel that familiar sensation building.

As if on cue, Hannibal slows his motions, offering a few last sucks and kisses along the muscles, and pulls away, abandoning me as he rolls off the bed, heading for the nightstand.

“No, please …” I protest with a dissatisfied grumble. " _Don't stop_."

 He offers me with a gentle smile as he pulls the bottle of lube from the drawer. “So impatient,” he coos, amused. 

Hannibal crawls back into position between my thighs, but he sits on his knees as applies the lube generously to his fingers. I expect it, but my body still tenses when he inserts the finger inside me, but I accept it greedily, and he easily pushes easily past the first ring of muscles. He inserts a second finger, and again I hear myself whimpering as he curls it to press against my prostate.

“Yesss, _Hannibal_ …” At this point, I'm just shamelessly begging for everything.

Precum pools down my abdomen, I can feel it slipping into my belly button from the angle my dick falls back against my stomach. Hannibal doesn’t miss the opportunity, lowering his head to kiss along the trail of hair that leads to the sticky mess, eagerly licking it up as if it were a delicacy too precious to be wasted.

My sounds and noises are completely out of my control, my hips are bucking into his fingers, as he now adds a third. I feel the pain and pleasure ripple through me, but it’s not enough. I can’t stand one more second without his cock inside me, filling me … _defiling me._

“ _Now_ ,” I say, desperate, “fuck me _now_ , Hannibal.” Each word barely escapes through my strained breaths.

He’s already covering his length with the lube, spreading it generously as he pulls back on the extra skin, and he lifts my hips again, spreading my legs wide as he moves in close, teasing his cock up against my entrance.

I can feel it wet, throbbing and leaking -- pressing hot against the first ring of muscles. I’m ready for him, but Hannibal is taunting me, brushing his cock along my opening mercilessly.

“Oh, _fuck you_ ,” I growl out, and Hannibal presses pass the muscles to oblige my request with his own raspy moan of pleasure upon entering me.

I cry out long and pitiful, simpering hymn. “ _Y … esss._ ”

“W - _Will_ ,” he says through a languid exhale, “You’re so … _so tight_ …” His eyes shift down, tongue on his lips, watching himself sink down into me, as I take him in whole. I roll and thrust my hips into him, letting him deeper, showing him just how good I can be.

How well I really can … _handle it_.

Almost like he knows what I’m thinking, he folds into me, pressing our bodies together, and grabs a handful of hair, tugging to pull me in close. I come willingly, wrapping my arms around the tight, flexing muscles along his back.

“Han …” I say, trying to call out for him, but I lose sight of my breath; it hitches and I moan as he pulls back a bit and then pushes in even deeper - so much deeper. My nails dig into his flesh, trailing down the curve of his back as he unleashes a filthy, breathy groan.

“Oh my god, I can feel you … y _ou’re so fucking deep inside me_ , Hannibal.” His lip curls into a snarl as I speak the words.

“You're so eager to take me,” he huffs out, “you’re .. so good, so ... _willing._ ” My dick leaks at his words, precum spilling, angry from the lack of attention.

Though he’s gentle for the first couple of thrusts as I settle into the motions, Hannibal becomes increasingly less careful with me and quickly finds his pace as he fucks into me, our sweat-dampened skin slapping against each other, both of us grunting and moaning and panting.

He steadies us, balancing back with one arm as the other still weaves through my hair, occasionally yanking at my curls. His cock slides in and out of me, lighting up every sensory receptor in my body and it’s a foreign, but welcomed, almost divinely-inspired, invasion.

Hannibal jerks my head back with a fistful of hair and I feel his muscles tense beneath me. He’s close, and it’s _aboutfuckingtime_ because I’ve been utilizing every fucking ounce of self control to keep from coming over the edge.

As he quickens his pace, I allow myself to give in wholly to all the sensations --  his balls slapping up against my ass, the lascivious sound of his slickened cock slamming into me, the little cries that escape when he hits a particularly good angle. As the horizon of my orgasm approaches, I’m in a continual, disoriented state of grunting and panting.

“Fuck, _Hannibal_ \--” I say, just at the edge, more of a tragic cry than I mean it to sound. He releases his hand from my hair, moving it between us to palm my cock, smearing the precum along my shaft so that he can stroke it firmly, but fluidly.

He pulls me in as close as possible, his breath hot on my neck as he buries his lips into my throat, crying out with a prolonged kind of sob and I feel that hot stream burst inside of me, sending me finally over the edge as I come in long white streaks, shooting into my stomach and chest, some trickling down through Hannibal’s fingers, as I mewl and whimper between breaths.  

We’re stuck to each other, sweaty, sticky and out of breath, as we lean into one another, foreheads pressed together. Chests heaving in and out with coordinated breaths.

I lift my eyes slowly to meet his, and can’t help but smile when I see him undone like this, as it’s such a fucking rarity. His eyes gleam, like a satisfied predator after a kill, and we finally pull ourselves apart, a slow and awkward separation. When he pulls his cock out from me, I feel an indescribable emptiness in addition to that obscene rawness born of our friction.

I've always embraced the soreness, carrying it with me like a battle-earned trophy, a reminder of Hannibal’s ability to make me feel truly whole. This particular rendezvous will leave me aching for a week, at least.

When I fall back on the bed, Hannibal remains upright, bringing his cum-soaked fingers to his mouth, raising a playful eyebrow at me as he examines them, appreciating the finished product it as if it were a work of art.  
  
I can’t help but giggle. “God, you _heathen_ ,” I say with a laugh, knowing that he just really can’t help himself.  

He flashes me a rare, but brilliant, pearly smile as he lets his tongue lick around his knuckles, tasting me, savoring that special flavor. He sucks them clean before he crawls over to me, pushing me flat against the bed as he drags his tongue across my stomach, finishing off the remaining mess we’ve left on my chest.

I scrunch my nose at him in playful distaste as he looks up to me, meeting my expression with an unapologetic grin. “You taste … _absolutely divine_ , Will.” He licks his lips, smacking them for effect.

I grimace, still a little embarrassed at his obsession with licking me clean.

“Better than dessert?” I ask demurely, looking away. He refocuses his attention, climbing up to me until we’re face to face.

His devilish grin fades, and he forces me to meet his eyes. “I could never describe to you, Will, the heavenly rapture of your sweet, delectable flavor on my lips.” He lets a hand travel to my forehead, pushing the sweat-drenched curls to the side. “Far better than any sort of confection one could hope to create.”

I try to contain the warm feeling that forces out my smile, but my self-control is no match for Hannibal’s poetic waxing. “I think you did a fine job describing it,” I whisper back, gently, beaming.

He plants a soft kiss on my forehead before rolling over to fall next to me, finally collapsing, back against the sheets. We lay silently for a few minutes, enjoying the quiet, post-coital bliss, listening to each other’s chests rise and fall with heavy breaths.

I finally reach over and thread my fingers through his and he turns to face me, his damp hair sticking to his face, and wildly disheveled. I smile as I take it in. I flip to my side so that I can see him better.

“Well,” I say, softly, “are you satisfied with the issues that we’ve ‘worked out’ this evening?” I let my lips plant a soft touch on his collarbone, tracing a line across his shoulders, cascading down the muscles of his arm.

He moves, aligning himself to face me on his side. “I’d say we’ve made great progress, wouldn’t you?” His mouth curves into a crooked, but tired, smile which I reciprocate.

“I’d say so,” I reply quietly. “I’d also say, Signore Bertolini is in for a … _rude_ awakening.” I chuckle a little at my word choice, and Hannibal follows suit, leaning in to kiss me.

Hannibal sighs out a gentle laugh. “Yes, I think he’ll be quite beside himself, by the end of it all.” He can’t help the grin that spreads thin across his lips, reveling at own sense of humor.

I push him in the shoulder playfully, knocking him off balance so that he falls back against the mattress once again and lower myself next to him, letting him wrap an arm around me to tuck me in close.

“Will …” Hannibal says, barely a whisper.

I plant a delicate kiss into his chest, making note of the pleasant way his silver curls tickle against my nose. “Yes?”

“I love you very much, you know.” He runs a hand through my hair, petting me, stroking me, like a cherished object. I let the smile break across my lips as I kiss into his chest, so he can feel my response.

He squeezes his arms around me tightly, letting me know he understands, and we rest peacefully like this until we’re both asleep, happy. Safe.

 _Alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> Mistakes are mine. Feel free to call them out if you see them! Thank you for reading, commenting, kudos, etc. Love to hear your thoughts. xoxo


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